No More Than This
by Assassin For Hire
Summary: Cyclops goes Edward Burns on us in this quiet snippet of the hero in the blue duds and marigold briefs. Genuine sappiness near the end with Jean.


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**NO MORE THAN THIS  
by Krista C. (kabanas)  
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**DISCLAIMER:** With the exception of Claire, those kids down there belong to Marvel Comics (though I'd like to think they're a part of me, too). Comments can be sent to Bohemian_Kris@yahoo.com.  
  


A cold day, an even colder glare. Scott Summers has never been much for expressing himself. Leaned back against a wooden chair, window-side seating, inside Manhattan's Red Ivy Cafe, the brooding late-20's superhero is either bored or made of stone--the female patrons in the cafe couldn't tell which. His gray sports coat hangs over his chair and shaded eyes take in the steaming cup of strong coffee his fingers toyed with. His generic blue tie has been unknotted around his loose collar, hanging freely over his slate cotton shirt. Long, wavy hair has been neatly combed back away from his eyes. He's been silent like this ever since he came into the cafe. The baristas see him here once every so often, and each time the man would do nothing but sit and enjoy his coffee and a danish. 

Some days, Scott would come in with a hand bandaged, or a bandaid over a cheek. None of the employees ever asked what trouble he got himself into. They found out long ago he isn't much for conversation. Scott's lean, chiseled, neatly shaven face turns towards the window and takes in the passerbys of late afternoon New York. His deep-set eyes and prominent brow are fixed in an omnipresent frown. For Cyclops, there's always something to worry about.

He breathes silently, warming his hands over the coffee now instead of plain drinking it. If it such a thing could be attributed, Scott could be characterized by his silent breathing. Hard at work, hard at play, angry, upset, overwhelmed, even euphoric, he keeps a cool, distant demeanor at all times. Many believe Scott is obsessive-compulsive about his habits and a by-the-book professional, however, he's always believed he's been quite the renegade at approaching life. Resourcefulness is one of his lesser known attributes. The X-Men's field leader -loves- improvising. The one thing people -are- right about though, is Scott's penchant for shouldering all of his troubles. And everyone else's. 

Employee and customer alike loved guessing the man's day job. Firefighter? Private investigator? Divorced stock broker? Whatever his "job" may be, people figured Scott committed himself to great causes. Some nameless aura of goodness surrounds the man wherever he goes. It could be his quiet stance, it could be his unsettling but amiable presence, it could be his soft-spoken voice to contrast that hard and immovable figure. Either way, Scott Summers fits the profile of an unsung hero. Little did these people know they had a mutant celebrity in their midst. He's come in here more than once tipping the baristas more than necessary, always dropping extra change into the relief funds, helping out some kids with their missing bus fare. He always gets stares for being selfless. Who was this guy? 

That was what the approaching waitress came to find out. The redhead couldn't be older than twenty. Possibly a part-time student. He'd seen her around here.

"Refill, Ace?" the woman offers, her canteen of coffee held up for him to look at.

Scott lifts his brow ever so slightly, slowly turning towards her to take in the question. "Please." 

His voice is ambiguously quiet. No enthusiasm whatsoever. Pity, the girl thinks, for such a handsome guy it's a shame charm didn't come along with the package. Pouring his mug slowly to the brim, the waitress presses on with: "You gonna be alright with that danish or is there somethin' else you'd like?" A conversation, maybe? 

Scott cooly responds by cocking his head to the side, shrugging lightly.

"I ate earlier."

A slightly forced New York accent graced his words.

"You live around here or somethin'?"

Scott can't help but chuckle at this point, seeing that he was being forced into talking. He reaches forward to bring the cherry danish closer.

"Not too far off," he admits. 

Scott can see he's got the girl embarrassed. It wasn't his intention, but he can see the girl bounced back easily, unscathed by his disinterest. Despite the two rings she sported on her brow alone, Scott could see she had a nice smile--not so much friendly as comfortably frank. Scott takes another bite of his pastry, and the silence drags on between them for an unnatural length between two strangers. From the corner of his eyes, he can tell he was being assessed. Nevermind that she didn't catch his name.

Straightening only to lean her weight to one side in a casual pose, the young woman naively questions: "Where you headed off to after this...?"

Immediately, an alluring side-smile lifts at the corner of the man's lips. Half-amusement, half-protest. He discretely uses his left hand to lift the mug for a sip. Her incredulity is quickly felt. Wedding ring. Scott's shaded eyes color white with amusement. So does the girl's. His gaze keeps strictly to the tabletop in front of him until he looks up to catch the nice laugh he had elicited from her. Scott nods in confirmation, folding his hands on the counter.

"I could've sworn..." she smiles, retreating back from whence she came. 

Shaking her head, the redhead languidly saunters back from to the bar. "Had me going all this time, y'know?" she tosses across the room. Scott can't help but smile. There's a look to him that reads: "I'm sure..." Left alone to himself now, Scott swallows down the last of his amusement with another sip of fresh coffee. He drifts back to serenity over hushed whispers from the bar. "Claire" was being harrassed because her attempt to get to know the Infrequent Customer had failed. Eyes locked past the dirty window and green ivy in the sill, Scott rolls back his slate blue sleeves, studying everyday exchanges between people. Immediately, the voices in the cafe are drowned out. Rock-hard muscle and a network of relaxed veins decorate Scott's exposed forearms. The medals he got for valor and bravery came in the forms of cuts and bruises beneath that fair, light down on his arms. Despite Cyclops' reliance on his optic blasts, he abused his body in other ways than just firing exercises. As is the case, Scott defies people's expectations of him. He's the native from Alaska who grew up loving warmth. Heat. Fire. A woman who embodied all those things and more. 

Needless to say, Scott likes sitting by the heater in this cafe, where the window panes collected wet frost from the cold outside. He liked watching the people on the streets. He liked getting lost within their inaudible conversations, their warm hugs, their bitter arguments. It made him feel removed from his station as the beating heart of the X-Men. It made him feel, in a way, that he was getting a "normal" perception of life outside of his involvement in superhero work. 

Just as he's about to spiral into another bottomless reflection of his life as humanity's rare savior, however, Scott settles the mug back onto the counter, frowning even more deeply than usual. A sensing device in his head announces the presence of his significant other not far away. Jean. Jean is the only person on earth that could shoot his senses like that above the clouds. He tried explaining this feeling to a close friend once. The best he could manage to Storm was "part soul healing, part vertigo drop, all longing." Scott leans forward, trying to make out any redheads on the taxi-lined streets, to no avail. That naturally meant she was already in the cafe. Turning completely around in his seat, Scott's mouth tautly opens in pleasant surprise. A small, confused grin. What was she doing here? Not that he minded her presence. It's just that he figured she would never bother to follow him here. The two of them have always lived by a code of unspoken loyalty. Even though it cuts her sometimes to let him go without asking for his whereabouts, even though she knows he does things he may never share to her in bed or in a conversation, she trusted him with all her heart and soul. Worriedly, Scott notices that Claire was making rampant eye contact with his wife, then back at him, and visa versa. When Jean slips into the seat in front of him, he's immediately knocked down for the obvious. 

"If I didn't know any better, I could swear you were here to pick up women," she teases lightly, gathering her lengthy crimson tresses over her shoulders and scooting her chair forward, smile beaming brightly. His goddess. He loves that smile. 

Scott follows along and scoots his chair forward as well. Her smile is contagious. He shares his own, too. Jean has gotten him through a lot of pain with singular affection.

Quietly, as if he's getting drowsy with appreciation for her being here: "What are you doing here, you silly goose..."

Hopefully, no one heard that but her. 

He can feel his hands being gathered into her warm mittens from underneath the table. "Not spying, for one thing," she continues on sunnily, flipping silky strands away from her eyes, chin drawn forward with dignity. No one can accuse her of being dowdy even if they tried. Then, quietly with more seriousness, her fingers weaving into his own, pulling him to her: "Do you mind that I'm here?" It was her way of making sure she hadn't intruded upon one of his secret places somehow. 

He smiles kindly, brows drooping with apparent affection. Scott simply shakes his head no. A bit of sadness at the moment... He hasn't quite snapped out of his pensive mood from earlier. His wife easily reads into this look and tries her darndest to lift him out of his spell.

"I wasn't expecting to find you here, actually," she continues, her lashes low and avoiding him. The rest of her face is purely tranquil. A graceful beauty. She reaches over to steal the cherry danish away from him. A mischievous smile. 

"Oh I'm sorry," she corrects herself, "You were wanting to hear all about my plan to spoil the sanctity of your little cafe here by coming to visit." Her brow rises, contemptuous. Nothing to equal her charm. Jean hammers in: "Getting off _that_?" 

Across from her, her husband is absolutely still. And absolutely enthralled.

"If I didn't know any better, I swear you're suggesting that I am," he counters in that lazy, "I don't take crap from anybody" way of his. Jean merely downs the rest of his danish with a fair bite, dusting her fingers off to the side. Smiggling her brows, pearly whites taunting him, she replies: "My husband. The cynic. I love your sense of humor." Her chin juts forward in a mock-seductive way, furthering him in his grief. "Is that the only thing you married me for?" Scott leans forward, interrogating her. Jean, in turn, advances forward. Eyes locked. She can see him narrowing his lashes in challenge beneath those expensive shades of his. 

"Your hair, too."

"Is that all?"

Closer.

"Well, your eyes."

"Oh?"

"You pulled out a chair for me."

"I did, didn't I."

"Don't get smart with me, Summers."

Closer.

"Yes, sweetheart..."

Their breathing tangled. They couldn't figure out which one of them leaned over to kiss the other first. Of the two of them, though, Scott does know that he was the first to pull out. He, for one, wouldn't be able to go through the day having missed the reaction on her face. When he slowly moves away, her eyes are still closed. Her cheeks have quietly risen with color, her smile prominent.

"Thank you for sparking my memory," she steadily opens her eyes.

A reach for his mug. An innocent sip.

"It was cause your ass looks great in tight jeans," Jean added.

Scott, in tandem with his wife, freezes as Claire is caught passing by them. The young woman's eyes are wide at this point. She quickly moseys on back down along her business. The silent discipline Scott had lost during that kiss is immediately nailed back on again. This was going to be a long afternoon...


End file.
